


Acts of Creation

by MidiFile



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Plant bullying, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), bread as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidiFile/pseuds/MidiFile
Summary: The only post apocalyptic fic you need - everyone’s happy, alive, in love, and they have bread.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 68





	Acts of Creation

There is a cottage by the coast. It has ivy creeping up the walls, a wide expanse of field out back, and a stone wall separating it all from the main road. A greenhouse sits to the side, though it’s difficult to see inside due to the terrifyingly abundant greenery within. An apple tree, planted as a joke, stands large and proud in the front garden. Apple trees always have been a stubborn plant.

Inside the cottage lies a mishmash of interior design; comfortable couches with coffee tables stacked high with yellowed books, angular shelves lined with the latest appliances. An aran jumper draped over the back of a sleek kitchen stool. 

In the kitchen, a demon weighs flour. 

After being certain of his ratios, he tips a little of the flour into a bowl of a honey and yeast mixture. Gradually stirring it all together, he adds olive oil and ground sea salt. The honey in the yeast mixture was bought from a woman down the road who keeps bees - Crowley often sees her outside the day before market, in her beekeepers suit, brandishing a smoker and looking, from a distance, like the textbook definition of a village cryptid. He’s had wonderful chats with her, learning of something called a “seed bomb”, and how they can be used to plant bee-friendly wildflowers in plots of bare land - like, say, the front garden of the landlord’s mansion. 

Crowley grins as he stirs the dough together, thinking back on their “joy ride” through the countryside; spotting pristine gardens of flat, green grass and pelting seed bombs at them full force. After a few minutes the dough starts to pull from the sides of the bowl, and Crowley scoops it out and moulds it into a ball. He rubs the bowl with olive oil and places the dough back inside, covers it with a towel, and places it in the sunlight that’s streaming through the window. 

Confident that the sun would continue shining for at least the next hour, Crowley rubs the oil off his fingers, removes his flour-coated apron, and slinks into the back of the cottage. Gently creaking open a door, he spies a sleeping angel, curled in the same position he’d left him. Smiling, Crowley soundlessly glides into the room and sits beside him on the bed. One blond curl is pressed down onto the angel’s forehead, making him look ridiculously adorable. Leaning over, Crowley presses a kiss into a soft cheek. The angel stirs. 

“Hrmf?” 

“G’morning, Angel. You’ve slept the day away, it’s noon already. I didn’t wear you out that much, did I?” Crowley smirks as the angel squints up at him. 

“I’m sure this body just isn’t used to having an actual sleep cycle” Aziraphale huffs as indignantly as he can with a face mashed into a tartan pillow. “You’re dressed. What have you been up to?”

“It’s a surprise. It won’t be ready for a good while anyway, but I thought I’d better wake you before the sun goes down.” Crowley laughs as Aziraphale gently swats his arm. “You still doing inventory today?” 

Aziraphale pulls himself up into a sitting position beside Crowley. “I am. It’s the most peculiar little bookshop; do you know I found a cookery book in amongst the autobiographies? I thought it was incredibly out of place until I flicked through it - I had to read through several of this man’s life tragedies before I could even get to a single recipe!” 

“Oh, that’s a common enough trend. I’ve seen it on the internet, people posting an entire all of text before finally releasing their grandmother’s treasured apple crumble recipe.” Crowley rolls his eyes and suddenly mushes another kiss into Aziraphale’s cheek. “Right-o, I’ve got herbs to bully. Don’t look in the kitchen for a while!” he proclaims before vaulting off the bed and slipping out the door. Aziraphale yawns wide enough to crack his jaw, and slides into his slippers. ‘ _Best get through that box of paperback novellas I suppose_ ’ he muses to himself, thinking of the snickering teens who had dropped the box off. ‘ _Tingle is quite the unusual surname, but surely not that amusing_.’

  
  


In the greenhouse, a small pot of rosemary is trembling. Crowley stalks closer, eyes golden from edge to edge, pruning shears held aloft. 

“This is for a good much greater than you.” 

**Shink, shink**

Two sprigs of rosemary fall into the demon’s waiting hand. 

“This better not disappoint me. Or I’ll come back for the rest of you.” Crowley does a circuit around the greenhouse, tormenting here and threatening there, until coming full circle back to the door. He places the pruning shears on a box by the door with a hard thunk. “Don’t forget about this” he ominously states before stalking back out. 

Back in the kitchen, he peeks under the tea towel to see the dough has swelled to twice its original size. He smiles, and turns the oven on. Tying his apron back into place, he grabs a fistful of flour and sprinkles it across the countertop. He carefully scoops the dough out of the bowl and slaps it gently down, creating a small cloud of flour that catches in the sunlight. Rubbing more flour onto his hands, he coats the rolling pin in a dusty layer and begins to roll out the dough. Back and forth, side to side, adding more flour to the pin as needed; gently and gradually shaping the dough into a flat rectangle. Once satisfied with the shape, Crowley covers it in a layer of cling film and leaves it to rise a little more. 

“Oi Angel, are you up yet?” he calls down the hallway. 

“Yes dear, I’m in the study. I haven’t looked in the kitchen, don’t worry” a distracted voice calls back. “Tell me, have you ever heard of an author by the name of Chuck Tingle?” 

Crowley almost inhales his tongue laughing.

“Y- yes, Angel, I have. He’s a good man, just, uh, didn’t think you’d follow his work.” Crowley wipes tears from his eyes. ”Is that the stockpile you were d-delivered?” he chokes on the last word, struggling to remain upright while crying laughing, imagining the face his angel must have made upon opening the box to something like “Space Raptor Butt Invasion”.

“Yes, well, I suppose I’ll put them behind the shop counter for now. There’s actually quite a good stock here; I’ll let the local queer resource centre know. Perhaps we could donate a few - oh, they could start a little library corner!” Aziraphale’s voice trails off into excited daydreams. Wiping his tears away and still gently chuckling, Crowley takes his phone out and starts playing bleepy mobile games to pass the time. 

After zoning out for twenty minutes of flashing colours and immaterial points, Crowley looks up to see the dough has expanded. Pocketing his phone, he peels off the plastic and places it onto a baking tray. With the handle of the wooden spoon, he pokes deep holes in an even pattern across the dough. Drizzling a generous amount of olive oil over it, he reaches across for the bag of sea salt flakes and sprinkles a pinch across. He glares at the rosemary. 

“This is your life’s worth. You’d better make it good.”

He crushes the sprigs in one hand and peppers the needles over the soon-to-be loaf. Satisfied with his design, he slides the entire tray into the sweltering oven. As it bakes, he sweeps the countertops clean of flour, washes the mixing bowl and weighing scale, and gives the kitchen a general once over before removing his apron. Opening the fridge, he takes out a small jug of vinaigrette, a dish of fresh butter, some cured meats, and the supplies for a salad.

The spinach leaves crunch softly under the running water as Crowley washes them alongside the tomatoes. He throws them in a glass bowl along with the blue cheese purchased from the stoic Dutch man at the farmer’s market. Crowley had tried to wake up early in time to buy his pesto-infused green cheese, but fate - read, ‘an angel’ - determined he would sleep in that morning. It was all Aziraphale’s fault, looking so soft and cosy so early in the day. What else could a poor, cold-blooded snake do but wrap themselves around that? 

“Aziraphale! Five minutes and it’s ready!” Crowley set out cutlery across the kitchen table, which unfortunately was adorned with a tartan tablecloth. ‘ _The sacrifices I make_ ’ Crowley had muttered the day Aziraphale brought it home.

Crowley hears a distant thud. 

“Oh! How exciting! I’m afraid I’ve been able to smell something cooking, though I can’t pinpoint what it is.” There’s the sound of a box being placed on the floor. “May I come in now?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, come on then.” He peeks into the oven just to make sure - and is immediately glad he did, as the edges were starting to look a bit too golden for his liking. Aziraphale walks in just as he’s grabbed the oven mitts and began pulling the bread out. 

“Oh Crowley, is that focaccia? That would go wonderfully with - oh! You already have the prosciutto out! Oh my _dear_ , this is lovely!” Aziraphale takes in the spread laid out on the table, eyes crinkling with joy. “Is there an occasion?” 

“Nah. Just been wanting to try my hand at baking bread, and thought I might as well go all out.” Crowley slides the bread onto a waiting plate. “I was thinking the red from last weekend to pair?” 

“Of course! I’ll get the glasses; I left it on the bottom shelf on the right, beside the milk” Aziraphale waves in the general direction of the fridge. He locates two stemmed glasses and places them beside each plate. Crowley uncorks the wine and pours a liberal amount into them. 

“Well, better get at it while it’s still warm” he gestures to the bread, which is indeed still warm from the oven. Aziraphale sits down and reaches over to tear a small piece off. The inside is fluffy and releases a puff of steam when torn. Popping it in his mouth, it reminds him briefly of an Italian bakery long gone, and the warmth of a hearth that now only exists as a memory on his skin. Blinking back to present day, he smiles over at Crowley and swallows. 

“It rivals the ritz in quality, my dear. I hope this is a hobby you’re looking to continue with?”

“I might. I’ve got a fair few herbs knocking around in the greenhouse. Might add a tomato plant or two, some squashes for the autumn months...” Crowley shrugs. “Need to keep myself busy now we’re retired and all.”

Aziraphale sees their potential future stretch out ahead of him. Mornings with toasted welsh cakes, hot and dripping with butter, lunches in the quaint little tea shop in the village, dinners with produce grown in their garden and supplemented with wine brought down from Soho. Aunt Nelleke from the book shop, laughing as he argues history with yet another customer. The small but vocal queer community, with their tea parties and charity collection runs. The life he and Crowley has built here, a year after the world didn’t end. 

And most incredibly, most miraculously, most- well, most ineffably - waking up every day next to Crowley. His best friend, his soulmate; whose hands once crafted the very stars for all the heavens and earth to see - and now craft fresh bread for one angel. 

Aziraphale sees all this and more just waiting for him. He raises a glass and Crowley follows suit, the wine glass and gold eyes catching the light. 

“To our retirement garden then, my dear.”

They smile, clink, and continue their lunch as they have done with all lunches since moving to their little cottage - in good company, and with hope for a contented future. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
